


You See The Stars But They Just See The Sky

by DrifterWriter, hpdm4ever, MessiFangirl (hpdm4ever)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: AU, Footballer!Cris, Hiatus, Lumberjack!Leo, M/M, Norway - Freeform, The lumberjack au that nobody asked for, more tags to be added later, nobody except Leo's beard that is
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-08
Updated: 2016-09-12
Packaged: 2018-07-27 03:42:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7602016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrifterWriter/pseuds/DrifterWriter, https://archiveofourown.org/users/hpdm4ever/pseuds/hpdm4ever, https://archiveofourown.org/users/hpdm4ever/pseuds/MessiFangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was not how Cristiano expected his vacation to go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It's only when the forest goes completely silent that Cristiano realizes he may have made a mistake.

For the past few hours, he'd been continuously hiking uphill. He'd climbed over rocks and fallen trees, trampled through sparkling brooks, and eagerly followed the path upwards. It was invigorating, exploring the mountainside, surrounding himself with flora and fauna. The air was crisp, and the wind had often threatened to give him a chill, but he had been warmed by the exercise. Everything was green and lush around him, the sunlight filtering down through the thickly clustered trees, shining on hints of frost here and there.

And it had been beautiful.

Serene.

Pure.

Just what he needed.

Because sure, sometimes it's nice to be adored by millions--to be out there on the field doing what he does best: destroying defenders, weaving his way towards the net and bamboozling goalkeepers with shots so hard that they almost rip the net. And yes, it's nice to be a role model for the younger players, to give advice and take pictures with young men and women who loved him, to be approached by beaming little children who only want a hug.

It's an indescribable feeling to be making such a difference for so many people.

But he can only take so much of what comes with that--the inescapable pressure of having to always be the best, the screaming rival fans with their harassment and constant insults. Not to mention the paparazzi that follow his every move and the press that twist his _every_ word.

Sometimes, well. Sometimes he just needs a break from that life.

He needs to go and recharge. And the best way to do that is to be alone with his thoughts, which is mainly the reason he likes hiking so much. He loves that feeling he gets when he's in the middle of nowhere, the only person for miles around, surrounded by nature. It's where he can take his time, exploring a world that most people never get to see, and he can finally relax and let go of all his worries.

So that's why, right before the season truly starts, he had taken an impromptu trip without telling anyone. He'd packed light, disguised himself, and taken a flight to somewhere he'd never been before. Nobody had recognized him in the sleepy little town, though they'd tried to press a guide on him when he'd mentioned his desire to hike up the mountain.

But he didn't want that, didn't want anyone with him on his trip, so he'd merely thanked them and said no.

He'd been nearly giddy with excitement when he'd stood at the base of the mountain and looked up towards the peak. Because it was perfect, exactly what he'd wanted. And he'd started up the mountain with a bounce in his step, stopping only to peer closer at some of the wild flowers, or to simply take in the beautiful view.

He'd even seen some reindeer casually grazing, just at the guidebook had promised, though the animals ran off when they caught sight of him watching.

Yes, it had all been perfect.

Until now.

Because now, it’s quiet. Too quiet.

None of the little forest creatures that he’d stopped to marvel at are anywhere to be seen. No majestic deer, no furry foxes or rabbits. Even the squirrels have all stopped their constant chattering. The birds have quieted, too. Their calming songs and joyful twittering have all slowed until finally, they stopped completely.

Because the clouds are starting to block out the sun.

What was once a beautiful blue sky with puffy white clouds softly drifting by, is now a rapidly changing one. A scary one. The sunshine is long gone, the forest around him dimming and darkening, making it hard for Cristiano to continue on. The wind is picking up, whipping around him and the trees sharply, tossing leaves and debris into the air.

Cristiano pulls his collar tighter around him, wishing that he had chosen to wear a scarf or hat. He'd thought his gloves would be enough.

And that’s when the rain starts.

Ice cold water splashes down upon him, first gently as it patters against leaves and branches above him, and then with more force as it truly begins to pour. Cristiano curses, shielding his eyes with his hand, trying to figure out what to do. He’d left the path some time ago, by accident, but hadn’t thought much of it. After all, he was trying to climb to the top, so all he had to do was keep following the incline. And then when he was finished, he just had to turn around and go back down the hill.

Just because it’s raining, that doesn’t mean he’s giving up.

That’s not who he is.

But even now, as the rain continues to stream down, puddles are forming all around him. The rocks are wet and slick, and as he tentatively tries to continue climbing up, his boot skids and almost sends him face first into the stone.

“Fuck,” he pants, catching himself at the last moment. He can feel the coldness of the stone even through his gloves, and he pulls his hands back immediately once he’s steady.

He moves to the side of the jagged boulder, trying to climb up again in a different spot, thinking that it's just one side that's too hard. But the rock is still too slippery, and no matter where he places his foot, he can’t get any traction. He really doesn’t have any other way to continue up the mountain, the rocks and trees having herded him into this tight area.

He contemplates trying to shimmy up one of the trees next to him, thinking maybe that he can get high enough to move over this rock and then move on.

But when he grabs ahold of a branch, testing its weight, it snaps.

“Down then,” he says to himself, knowing that he can’t continue up as planned. He's not happy about having to turn back, but he knows he can always try again tomorrow, after the storm has passed. With that in mind, he takes a few timid steps back the way he came, boots squishing into mud and sliding a little.

But down seems to be just as difficult as up, the wind whipping water into his eyes every time he drops his hand to grab ahold of a rock or branch. He can’t see any of the footholds that he’d used when he’d climbed before, and as a result, ends up guessing where to put his feet. He ends up on his ass more often than he’d like.

A thunderbolt cracks above his head, and he nearly jumps out of his skin.

All he can think of are the stories of hikers being struck by lightning—the poor fools who were touching the wrong trees at the wrong moment.

Wouldn’t that be a shitty way to get killed. He’d become a fucking trivia question: _What stupid way did famous footballer Cristiano Ronaldo die?_

He looks up, trying to peer through the rain and the treetops to see the sky, but all he sees is hazy darkness. “Fuck,” he curses again, mostly out of the habit of having to say something even when he's alone, wiping his eyes and looking back down at the ground. He’s already dripping wet, and he can feel the water soaking through his jacket.

Still he continues to backtrack, to go down the hill as quickly as possible.

But it isn’t possible.

Every step has to be a careful one, or else he risks bashing his head against one of the many rocks along the way. And the last thing he wants is to injure himself when he’s all alone and miles from civilization. So he moves slowly, often trying two or three different footholds before putting his full weight down.

And then it begins to hail.

“Go to Norway,” Cristiano says, repeating what Martin had said to him days before. He winces as the little stones of ice start to pelt him. “It’s so beautiful, you’ll _love_ it,” he says, mimicking his young teammate and shielding his face as the hail bounces off the rocks ahead of him. “Well, you’re fucking wrong!” he shouts into the sky, venomously starting to plot ways to make young Ødegaard’s life miserable.

Assuming he survives this, of course.

His fingers and toes are starting to tingle, and he stamps his feet to keep them warm. But all that results in are his boots sinking into a freezing mixture of watery mud.

As if that isn’t enough, on his next step, he completely slips off a rock and falls down into a puddle. The cold water knocks the air out of his lungs, and he chokes on it for a second before he can pull his face up. Breathless, he rests on his hands and knees, closing his eyes and wishing he were anywhere but here.

He knows he looks like shit, can feel the mud sticking to his face and body, but even worse-- when he tries to get to his feet, his ankle gives out beneath him. 

There's no audible snap, but the pain is enough to make Cristiano cry out, even though he knows there's no one here to hear him, nobody to complain to. For a good minute all he can cohesively think is _it's broken it's broken it's broken I won't ever play football again it's broken_ - 

But he's had plenty of practice of getting a grip on himself in moments of crisis (though this is by far the most critical moment of them all). He gets back onto his hands and knees as the pain subsides marginally, gingerly rotating his foot and hoping against hope that he hasn’t broken his ankle. He’s able to move it quite a bit, so eventually he decides that it’s merely a strain.

Except that still means he’s fucked.

Because his teeth are chattering and he’s losing feeling in his hands. He can’t be out in this storm much longer, otherwise he’s going to die of hypothermia. Another option to add to the trivia question. 

He needs to seek shelter.

“There must be something,” he murmurs to himself, out of sheer habit, clinging to a tree and using it to help himself stand. He gingerly puts weight on his ankle and nearly bites through his lip at the searing agony. When he can breathe again, he wipes his face, looking around for anything he can use for shelter.

There’s a clump of trees slightly to the right, their branches sort of hanging over like a canopy, and he decides they’re better than nothing. He limps over towards them, slightly brightening when he notes that they’re thick enough to protect him from any more of the hail. He braces himself with a stick that’s about the size of a cane, squishing through more mud until he finally reaches his sanctuary.

The trees do shelter him, though they don’t do anything for his body heat, and Cristiano hugs his knees to his chest, trying to get warm. He sits there, rocking back and forth, saying a little prayer when the hail seems to change back to rain. He doesn't feel warmer, but it makes him think it must be. In the back of his mind, he realises that taking shelter under a clump of trees during a thunderstorm is the stupidest thing he can do, it's pretty much _asking_ to get struck by lightning, but it barely registers-- and it's not like he can do much about it anyway.

He watches the rain for god knows how long, eyes unfocused as he wonders how long he can last. He starts to nod off at one point, but shakes his head violently, knowing he can't fall asleep.

He stares out into the rain again, blinking as his eyes start to play tricks on him, which means he's finally cracked.

 _Huh_ , Cristiano thinks, blinking hard again in an attempt to stop hallucinating. _I thought I would have lived to be eighty._

Except, as his vision swims, and he shakes his head again, he could swear-- it looks so real, there in the distance--

He gets to his feet hurriedly, crying out as he puts his weight on his ankle again. He grits his teeth, taking deep breaths and trying not to throw up as nausea washes over him.

Because there, through the trees, almost hidden by a giant boulder, is a shack.

A fucking _cabin_.

And not only that, if he's seeing correctly--it's a cabin with a thin stream of smoke escaping from the chimney.

Barely aware of his actions, he starts hobbling towards the building, squishing through countless puddles and mud several inches deep. His ankle screams with every step, but Cristiano powers on, knowing that he needs to get to that cabin, needs to get in and get warm. If there's smoke, there must be a fire, must be heat, and he summons up the rest of his strength to make it the last few steps in front of the cabin.

He doesn't know who lives here, or even if they'll let a stranger in. But he _has_ to try, especially since it starts to rain even harder, which he didn't even think was possible. The wind starts howling again, a cold knife against his skin, this time almost knocking him over, and he hurries to stumble up the front steps.

He practically heaves himself up onto the porch, shivering once he's under the roof, and starts banging on the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're cowriting a story! And it's a lumberjack au. I know right? It's what you all didn't know you wanted until now. It's very exiting and we hope you all like it as much as we do. Xoxo


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The barrel of a gun is the first thing Cristiano sees when the door swings open.

The barrel of a gun is the first thing Cristiano sees when the door swings open.

And, really, any sane person facing the barrel of a gun would probably run for their life, but Cristiano's feet are just as frozen as his brain and all he can do is blink. He stares at the silver tunnel in front of his face, uncomprehendingly, squinting as his eyes keep trying to adjust to the darkness--trying to associate a being with the blur that's threatening to blow his head off at any moment.

Yet another ending to that trivia question, ha.

God, he's almost gotten killed so many times today that it's starting to get funny...

But at this point, Cristiano is so fucking _cold_ that he doesn't even think about turning back and running in the other direction. Even if he could. Instead, like a crazy person, he reaches out and gropes blindly with his fingers. He's not sure why--maybe because half of him still thinks he's hallucinating and that none of this is real.

After all, he's never had a gun pointed directly at his head before.

It becomes a little more real when his glove brushes over the metal of the gun. He shivers involuntarily, sliding his hand farther up the barrel, his numb fingers trying to grip it while he tries to understand what he's touching.

Then he gets to something soft.

Something that he thinks would be warm if he could feel anything.

An arm.

He pulls his hand back and blinks several times until he can just make out the silhouette of a someone standing in the doorway. And, okay, he'll take his chances by standing his ground. Maybe it's a stupid thing to do, but if he's going to die, he'd choose a quick bullet over hypothermia any day.

The person in the doorway continues to point the rifle at Cristiano's face, not making a sound. But Cristiano doesn't run.

As his vision clears marginally and his brain thaws by just as much, the cold fingers of raw fear start to creep into his chest-- because this man is fucking _scary as shit_. 

  
Cristiano suddenly realises that he's at the doorstep of a cabin in the middle of nowhere.

In the middle of _nowhere_.

  
And man doesn't exactly look warm and cuddly (though, if a kindly looking fat lady had opened the door, Cristiano would have turned and run the other away for sure-- he's still traumatised by the story of Hansel and Gretel) with his dark eyes and his beard and, oh yeah, the fact that he's holding a fucking _rifle_.

  
It's the rifle that scares him the most, and not just because it's pointed at his face. But what sort of person automatically points a gun at people knocking at their door?!

  
Why does this man assume that Cristiano is dangerous? He looks down at himself and then back up. He looks like a hiker that got caught out in a storm! He doesn't look like a threat at all!

"Hello," Cristiano says nervously, teeth practically chattering. He shifts his weight, summoning a smile as he tries to look harmless and friendly. He can look friendly, friendly is easy--it's his commercial look, the look for nervous kids who clutch at their parents' legs when he approaches. Yes, he can do this. Relax the shoulders, drop the chin, smile with the eyes, don't show too much teeth...

But the man--Cristiano is sure it's a man now--is silent.

" _Hola_?" Cristiano tries again, in Spanish. There's no reason why a person living in a godforsaken corner of the Norwegian mountains would know Spanish, but Cristiano is still getting soaked by the rain, and so he's pretty much desperate to try anything.

Except there's still no answer.

" _Olá_ ," Cristiano says, in Portuguese, hugging his arms to his sides, trying to conserve what little body heat he has left. He can feel himself starting to shake, but he forces himself to remain as motionless as possible. He still can't see the entire face of the stranger-it's much too dark for that-but he can tell that the man is quite short and powerfully built... maybe a little on the stocky side.

The man doesn't respond to him this time either, and Cristiano lets out a long sigh. His ankle is screaming bloody murder from standing for so long, but he's nothing if not used to pain. He grits his teeth automatically, his body's normal response to such an injury, but then relaxes his jaw when he realizes he probably looks like he's baring them angrily.

 _Be friendly, be friendly, be friendly_ , he thinks to himself.

"Hello," he says again, going back to English, which is probably his best bet, making his saddest puppy eyes, which are also his best bet. "My name is Cristiano. I'm lost and hurt, and shit, I'm freezing. Can I please come inside?"

No answer.

But the man lowers his gun.

Cristiano takes this as a good sign, and wearily creeps forward over the threshold. In hindsight, Cristiano realises that it was probably rude to let himself into the house like that without being invited, but to be fair, the guy _did_ lower his gun, and Cristiano figures it was as much of an invitation as he's going to get. Especially if the man doesn't speak any of these languages.

Cristiano unsteadily shuffles all the way into the house, wincing as his bad ankle protests on every step.

"Okay, so, this is great," Cristiano mutters as the man closes and locks the door behind him, leaving the two of them trapped in the dimly lit cabin. Everything is much quieter, too, with the howling wind and the pounding rain all sounding somewhat muffled. "Everything is fine. There's nothing strange about this at all. I've definitely never seen a horror movie that started like this. Nope, not a single one."

He turns around and finds the man standing right behind him.

"Jesus fucking Christ!" Cristiano yells, taking a step back and holding onto his chest like it's going to stop his heart from trying to escape.

The man merely blinks at him, looking neither fazed nor apologetic.

In the dim light of the candles inside the cabin, Cristiano can finally see the rest of the stranger's face. His beard seems to match his dark hair, or maybe it's slightly a different shade? But his eyes....

They scare Cristiano. No, they don't just scare him. They fucking _terrify_ him.

They're eerily dark, looking cold and and dead as the man stares at him unflinchingly and questioningly.

The man's grip tightens on the gun in his hand, before he hefts the weapon to rest over his shoulder. It's like he's reminding Cristiano that he still has it and he's willing to use it. The rifle is actually half the man's size. But even though he's on the shorter side, he looks strong, and Cristiano just isn't sure that he can overpower him if it comes to escaping....

Because sure, Cristiano is in terrific shape, but he's also achingly cold with a bad ankle. Not to mention the raging storm outside and the fact that he's in an unfamiliar country.

And the rifle. It makes Cristiano very uneasy.

But just then, out of nowhere, after another warning glance at Cristiano, the man puts the gun down next to the door. He gives Cristiano a piercing look, making sure the safety is on, and then he crosses his arms in front of his chest as if to say _now what?_

Cristiano shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath.

He's Cristiano _fucking_ Ronaldo.

He can handle this.

"Okay," he starts again, staring at the man. "So, I'm sorry to barge in here like this--trust me, I probably wouldn't if I had any other choice. But I mean, I was hiking, and the storm started so suddenly." He shakes his head, noting absently that he's dripping water onto the floor. "And I tried to turn back, you know? But with the rain and the hail, everything was just so slippery. I was struggling out there for awhile and I just couldn't get anywhere."

The man continues to stare back at him.

"So I saw your place, and really, I was so freaking cold that I thought I was hallucinating," Cristiano continues, fingers twitching as the feeling in them starts to come back marginally. "Because we're so in the middle of nowhere, and honestly who has a cabin in the middle of nowhere? I mean, I have a bunch of houses, but even I don't have a place that's on the top of a mountain. I think Gareth has one, though--Gareth's a friend of mine--"

Cristiano clears his throat, knowing he's getting sidetracked. "But I could see the smoke, and I just had to get in and get warm." He wiggles his fingers some more, flinching at the pins and needles feeling. "You don't mind, right? I mean, obviously I threw you off a little because you probably weren't expecting any idiot hikers to be pounding on your door... I didn't see anyone else out there," he jokes.

The man peers down at the puddle of water at Cristiano's feet.

"Of course you don't mind," Cristiano says, shivering. "You fucking don't understand a single word of what I'm saying. It's all gibberish to you, isn't it?"

The man frowns and walks over to the corner of the room. He rummages in a cabinet for a minute and then comes back with a rag.

"Oh! That's really not gong to be enough to dry me off," Cristiano says, pulling his gloves off. "I mean, I'll take it, because anything is better than nothing, but--" he trails off as the man squats down and starts mopping up the water on the floor. "Are you kidding me?" he asks, trying not to raise his voice. "I'm standing here, soaked to my skin, probably going to catch pneumonia," he says, shivering again, "and all you care about is your precious floor?!"

No reply. Cristiano bites his tongue to keep from screaming.

"Great, fine," Cristiano says. "Yeah, that's fine." He tosses his gloves in the direction of the fireplace, watching as they splat on the floor and spray water everywhere. He feels a tiny bit bad about the mess, but then he remembers he's still fucking freezing.

The man looks over at the sound and then swings his head back to stare at Cristiano questioningly, brows furrowing. He picks up the sopping rag and goes over to Cristiano's gloves and starts wiping the floor over there.

Cristiano fumbles with the zipper of his jacket, fingers aching. "Go to Norway," he mumbles again, mimicking Martin. "Get trapped in the middle of nowhere with a fucking wildman who loves floors."

He finally manages to shrug off his jacket and shivers in relief as its dead, soggy weight comes of his shoulders. He continues to strip methodically, peeling off layer after damp layer from his sticky skin.

Finally he's down to his undershirt.

"Like, I'm sorry, you know," he says suddenly as he draws it over his head, because he's never been able to keep his mouth shut when he should, and _maybe_  he's feeling a tiny bit bad about throwing the pair of wet gloves onto the floor of the house of a person whose hospitality was pretty much commanded, not offered. He holds his last layer awkwardly in his hand, watching it drip onto the floor, not knowing where to put it. He ends up just dropping it onto his other things.

"I'm sorry," he tries again, clearing his throat. "I don't usually do this kind of thing, y'know? Barge into people's houses like this." Cristiano takes off his boots, wincing as pain shoots up his ankle. He leans against the wall for support and closes his eyes in agony, determined not to cry out loud.

He feels a tap on his shoulder that, once again, nearly scares the shit out of him. His pulse quickens, but he opens his eyes to see what's happening.

It's the scary bearded man, who is looking at him almost tenderly, as if to say _you okay?_

Numbly, Cristiano looks over to the fireplace, only now noticing that the man has built up what was a tiny fire into a roaring one. Not only that, the stranger has laid out all of Cristiano's wet things on a rack to dry. While Cristiano is processing everything, the man scoops up his boots and puts them in front of the fire as well.

It's a somewhat touching gesture.

With the last bit of energy Cristiano has left, he forces himself to look into he strangers eyes, a little unsure of what to expect. What he isn't expecting, though, are for what he thought were cold, lifeless eyes to suddenly turn into irises that look as warm and deep as melting chocolate.

Cristiano blinks.

He blinks again.

But now there's no denying it-- there is something in the stranger's expression that wasn't there before-- or maybe Cristiano had been too busy worried about himself to notice. The smaller man looks almost _nervous_ as he searches Cristiano's face for something.

And maybe, this man isn't as scary as he seemed.

The exhaustion and desperation hits Cristiano so hard, so _suddenly_ , that even such a trivial kindness brings unbidden tears to his eyes. He closes them yet again to stop them from leaking out. Fuck, he's such a mess.

" _Takk skal du ha_ ," Cristiano says quietly in Norwegian without opening his eyes as he hears the man returns to his side, using what he's picked up from the little pocket dictionary he bought at the airport.

He freezes, eyes opening instantly.

The dictionary.

He still has the dictionary.

Bounding up with a speed that surprises both himself and the stranger, he rushes excitedly to where his jacket is laid out, hoping that there is some way the dictionary is still intact and hasn't disintegrated.

"Please, please, _please_ ," he mutters involuntarily to himself, roughly tearing through the inner pockets of the jacket, his toes unconsciously crossed in blind hope. His hands are trembling as his shaking increases, the heat of the fire not being enough to warm him sufficiently, but he doesn't give up.

His efforts are rewarded--he holds up his tiny pocket dictionary with the same triumph with which he held up the Champions League Cup this year. "Yes!" He turns back to the stranger, who is watching him with detached bewilderment, though the corner of his lips twitch upwards as if he's slightly amused.

Cristiano shuffles through the dictionary excitedly, turning pages with numb fingers. " _Mitt_ \- uh, _navn er_ Cristiano-," he stutters, shivering in earnest, trying to hold the book steady. His throat is aching, already beginning to feel sore, but he chokes through the words.

He feels a hand on his arm. The man is looking at him.

"I--," Cristiano tries to say, but his voice catches in his throat. He clears it, looking somewhere in the region of the man's chest, and tries again. "I just--," he manages hoarsely, vision starting to swim.

The man, who has still not said a fucking _word_ , takes the dictionary from Cristiano's numb fingers. He closes it and sets it aside onto the small table by the door that Cristiano hadn't noticed.

Cristiano doesn't have the strength to do anything but stare.

Then, gripping his arm firmly but gently, the man guides him through the cabin into a ridiculously tiny bathroom area in the corner, which is smaller than Cristiano's closet back home.

If Cristiano weren't so dead on his feet, he'd probably be understanding why he's being led here, but as it is, he can only lean on the man wearily--too tired to process anything. He has a brief thought that he must be too heavy, but the other man doesn't complain, so Cristiano greedily soaks up some of his body heat.

Releasing his grip on Cristiano's arm, the man rummages in the small cupboard above the toilet and pulls out a pair of clean, dry towels which he proceeds to dump into Cristiano's arms.

Cristiano stares. It's all he's been doing lately. That, and talking.

When he doesn't move a muscle, the stranger rolls his eyes with a slight twitch of the lips and pushes him forward gently to propel him towards the shower. Cristiano moves forward, legs feeling like jelly--he's not sure whether that's because of the cold or because of the man's kindness.

All he knows is that he's completely overwhelmed.

He looks back and sees his companion is leaving him, pulling on a jacket, heading towards the door. He's not quite sure why the man wants to go out into the storm. Maybe to batten down the cabin. Maybe to give him some privacy. Maybe both.

" _Gracias_ ," Cristiano says quietly, clutching the towels like a lifeline as he stands there shaking. He's not sure whether or not he wants the man to hear.

The stranger looks up, tugging a cap down over his dark hair. In the light, Cristiano can see that what he thought was a matching beard is actually tinted red. But the man's eyes are definitely brown, and they meet Cristiano's while he pulls on a pair of gloves.

" _Gracias_ ," Cristiano says again, this time louder, voice scratchy.

After a long silence, the man nods. He wraps a scarf around his face, covering his mouth and nose, tucking the end into his jacket. Then he tilts his head towards the door and holds up five fingers. _I'll be right back._


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cristiano stares after him for a few moments, even after the door has closed and the man has vanished into the storm.
> 
> And then he's alone again.

Cristiano stares after him for a few moments, even after the door has closed and the man has vanished into the storm.

And then he's alone again.

The events of the day are definitely catching up to him because he finds himself taking a few shuddering breaths while trying not to fall apart completely. After a minute he regroups, dropping the towels onto the sink so that he can undo his pants and peel off his final few layers. His hands are still shaking a bit, so he drops everything into a pile on the floor, quickly reaching in to get the water started.

The shower is still _ridiculously_ tiny looking, especially for someone his size, and it's certainly nowhere near the luxurious shower he has at home. Or in the training rooms. Or in any of the hotel rooms he normally stays in. In fact, he has to bend his knees in order to actually get under the shower head. "Ridiculous," he murmurs, ducking down. But the first touch of the hot water against his freezing skin is so heavenly, that everything about the size just goes out of his mind.

He closes his eyes, breathing a sigh of relief, letting the water just pour over his face, letting it flow down his body and give him some much-needed warmth. Then he thunks his head against the shower wall.

Because this is not how he imagined his vacation going.

This is not the kind of break he wanted.

It's not even close.

He sighs and opens his eyes, knowing that if he keeps them closed any longer, he's going to fall asleep standing up. He looks around, noting a few plain bottles that probably contain shampoo and conditioner, and reaches for a small square of soap sitting on a ledge inside the shower. He raises to his nose, sniffing experimentally, and is pleased with the soft scent. It's not one he would have pegged a wildman to have used at all. He would have expected something strong, something manly, but this is completely the opposite.

Cristiano likes it.

Quickly, he scrubs his arms and chest, and then realizing his face is still splattered with mud, he gives that a quick wash too. His hands come away filthy, and as he blinks water out of his eyes, he watches the dirt run down his body and disappear into the drain at his feet. He's starting to feel better as he gets cleaner, and he gives himself another scrub, this time just for the pleasure of seeing the frothy bubbles appear as opposed to dirty water.

The man probably won't mind if Cristiano uses the soap, anyway. Well, Cristiano isn't sure. He's still not sure what to think of this man. This bearded wildman who loves floors and lives out in the middle of nowhere... But also has the kindest eyes...

But the way he doesn't speak? Cristiano purses his lips and then ducks his face into the water to rinse again. That's a little weird. Not the end of the world, but if Cristiano is going to be stuck here for awhile? How will they communicate? Because they've barely managed as it is.

And why doesn't the man talk?

Is he mute?

Sick?

At first, Cristiano thought it was just the language barrier, but now he isn't so sure.

He's extremely curious, though, which probably doesn't bode well for their next conversation.

Cristiano bows his head, letting the water stream down his back. As strange as things are, Cristiano can't complain right now. He's so thankful he found this cabin, found this welcoming man... He shudders, imagining what would have happened if he'd remained outside in his makeshift shelter. His ankle throbs in reminder.

No, things are definitely better now. He's safe, clean, and warm. And he can deal with being stuck in close quarters with a stranger... It'll be just like it used to be back in the day. Probably.

Cristiano lets the water run until it starts getting cold. He sighs when he shuts it off, letting the last trickles of warmth run down his back. He gropes for the towels blindly and wraps one of them around his waist, using the other to towel his face and then upper body dry.

He can see the entire room from where he's standing. It's still empty--the stranger is clearly not back. Glancing around furtively-- though there's really nobody here to see him half-naked, who is he kidding-- he skips over gingerly to the fireplace, wincing when his ankle twinges in sympathy. His wet clothes are laid out neatly over the rack still, right where the man had left them.

He touches his things one by one. They're all wet.

"Dammit," he mutters. "Fucking rain... Waterproof my ass." Wondering what to wear, he looks around vaguely, and his eyes fall onto a closet of sorts built into the wall next to the bathroom. He probably shouldn't snoop, but he's starting to shiver.

He hops awkwardly over to the closet as fast as he can. Goosebumps spread over his damp skin despite the roaring fire and he hastily yanks the door open, almost taking it off its hinges in his haste. He almost reached in immediately, but seeing how dark it is inside, he checks the shelves for spiderwebs first. Thankfully finding none, he searches the piles for something he can wear.

His eyes land on a shelf full of pants. There's a pile of what looks like sturdy denim jeans, another of some type of work pants, and then one of folded tracksuit bottoms. The last is exactly what he needs. Taking care to not crumple them as he searches for the biggest-- hospitality does have its limits-- he finally finds a pair he thinks is going to fit best... which is obviously still considerably smaller, but beggars can't be choosers.

Before he puts them on, though, he hums. He's not sure the other man will like him wearing pants without any underwear underneath. Of course, that brings up the issue of Cristiano needing to borrow underwear. He looks back to where his wet briefs are crumpled on the bathroom floor, and then he eyes a pile of clean, dry ones on the shelf. He wavers, but in the end, he shrugs. It's just clothing after all. He grabs a pair off the top and pulls them on quickly. They don't exactly fit either, but he'll make do.

The track bottoms go on next before he searches the cabinet for a shirt.

There are a few piles of t-shirts and Cristiano picks up a random one to try on. It fits much better-- the man apparently likes to wear them loose and big, so they fit Cristiano like a glove, hugging his body snugly. He eyes himself in a tiny mirror on the wall.

He looks a little ridiculous, like he's wearing the wrong size shirt and pants, especially since the shirt isn't long enough to cover him completely, and he can practically hear his stylist screaming from here. But hey, it'll work.

Now dressed, Cristiano wonders what to do with himself. He closes the closet and takes the few steps back to the bathroom area to pick up the rest of his wet clothes, hanging them and his towel over a rack next to the shower. His wet underwear looks a little weird next to the towel, but Cristiano feels weirder putting them in front of the fireplace. He hangs his pants next to them and decides they're fine. They'll dry eventually anyway.

His bare feet are cold on the tile, but he doesn't want anything tight over his ankle, so he decides not to look for socks. Instead, he turns to go back to the main living area. Except, it's not so much as turn and go, as it is just turning around.

It's... The cabin is just small. Very small.

Cristiano makes a face. He puts his hands on his hips and surveys the room. On one side in the corner is the tiny bathroom--dull cream colored tile on the floor of the ridiculous shower with a little sink and toilet. There's no real door to the bathroom. It's just an open area in the corner. And it's probably fine for the man who lives here by himself in the middle of nowhere and never has visitors, but with the two of them, it's going to be a bit of an issue. Thankfully the man went outside while Cristiano showered, because the little glass door certainly wouldn't have hidden anything.

What looks like a futon is also on that side of the room against that wall, next to the bathroom area. It's covered with pillows and a few neatly folded blankets. It looks comfortable... but small.

Small seems to be the way to describe everything.

On the other side of the room is a small kitchenette. It has a few cabinets. A tiny stove. Another sink.

It's not much.

The rest of the room is barely big enough to explore. It just has the couch near the fireplace and a bookcase against the wall. There's also some storage stuff near the front door, but they end up containing extra blankets and jackets, along with some tools and things that Cristiano doesn't recognize.

That's it.

Cristiano takes a deep breath, not knowing how someone can live in a space this small. He takes a step towards the couch, his feet accidentally touching a small puddle of water that the man had missed mopping up. He pauses and looks down at the floor, trying to understand what is so special about it. But it just looks like wood to him. He grabs one of the little towels and cleans the mess up anyway.

Then bored, he sinks down onto the small couch--something that he can't even really fit on comfortably. But it's the only real furniture aside from a tiny coffee table. And the futon. But Cristiano feels weird sitting on the other man's bed. He's contemplating taking some sort of nap, maybe just not worrying about fitting and leaning back against the cushions of the couch.

Just then his stomach growls.

He weighs his options, looking at the door and wondering when his host will reappear. "Could have meant five hours," he mutters to himself, because it has certainly been longer than five minutes. With that in mind, he limps over to the small kitchenette and begins to rifle through one of the cabinets. He finds all sorts of canned food, vegetables and fruits, stored neatly in one cabinet. There are a few jars of things like honey and jellies that are half full, and Cristiano is careful not to knock into them. Another cabinet has boxes of food, things like pasta and rice and also, according to the pictures on the labels--dried meats?

Cristiano makes a face.

He doesn't know what to do. He doesn't know what he wants to eat either, not that there are really that many choices. But if this man has carefully planned meals, Cristiano doesn't want to interfere with that. He eyes a box of pasta, but in the end, just shakes his head.

He does decide he'll make tea, though, after spotting a small kettle and a large box of teabags. There are definitely plenty of them, so he doesn't feel like he's stealing anything important. After a few minutes, he figures out how to light the stove, and then he starts boiling his water. Searching through another cabinet, he finds dishes, and he pulls out a mug.

He bites his lip, wondering if he should make another cup for the other man. "I should, right?" he asks himself, holding the mug in his hand. There's no answer of course, but he searches through the cabinet and finds another mug. There actually are only two, so Cristiano feels like this is the right decision. It doesn't take long for the water to boil, and he sets the two mugs on the little counter and pours the water over the teabags.

His stomach growls again, and he sighs. He goes back to the cabinet that had held the dishes, and he pulls out a glass. "Better than nothing," he says, filling it up at the sink and then chugging it. Then he does it again, figuring he's probably dehydrated anyway. He feels better after the second cup and puts the empty glass in the sink to wash later. Turning back to his tea, he dunks the tea bags into the water, watching the liquid in the mugs slowly change color. When it's finished, he finds a container with packets of powdered milk, and adds some to his tea followed by a touch of sugar. He doesn't add anything to the other man's just in case.

The mug is deliciously warm when he picks it up, and he carefully carries his to the couch, leaving the other on the counter. He's not sitting there long before he takes a sip, unable to resist the heat he can feel wafting into his face. "Mmmm," he says, as he drinks, unable to hide his contentment.

Not that it matters. Since he's alone.

Just then, the door flies open, and Cristiano nearly drops his precious mug of tea. His host bursts into the cabin, wind and rain pouring in behind him before he wrestles the door closed. "Still raining, huh?" Cristiano asks, trying to make conversation as the other man leans against the door wearily. "I mean, obviously," Cristiano soldiers on when he receives a baleful look in response. "I--I made some tea. I hope that's okay."

Cristiano points over towards the stove when those brown eyes look at the mug in his hands. "I made you some, too, but you might have to heat it up unless you want to drink it right this second." He shrugs sheepishly. "I, uh, actually wasn't sure you were coming back."

The other man stares at him, reaching up to pull a soaked, woolen hat off his head.

Cristiano bites his lip. "I mean, I thought you said five minutes, but then I realized that might not have meant five minutes. It's just, I didn't really know what you were doing... Or where you went? But, I figured you'd be back eventually."

The other man hangs his hat in front of the fire, and then adds his gloves followed by his scarf. He wipes his face, pushing his dark hair off his forehead, looking tired.

Cristiano wants to say more, but doesn't know what will make things better. He's sure the man understands him now, and is just choosing to or unable to answer. So Cristiano keeps quiet.

The man's wet boots get propped by the fire, right beside Cristiano's.

The man feels some of Cristiano's clothes, shaking his head when they're still not totally dry. Then he strips off his own wet things, putting his sopping jacket on the rack along with a thick sweater. Space is limited, especially with all of Cristiano's clothes, so Cristiano is not surprised to see that he keeps on his long sleeved shirt. The man begins shivering a little as he turns back to Cristiano.

The damp fabric clings to his body, and Cristiano realizes that the man really isn't as big as he had originally seemed. He's paler, though, skin looking like it hasn't seen the sun in ages. Except for his cheeks which, even with the beard, Cristiano can see are flushed from the cold.

"Tea?" Cristiano asks, wanting to help, wanting to repay the kindness the man had shown him. "Or, maybe shower first?" he suggests, watching as some water trickles down from the man's hairline. His beard is wet, too, making the hair look darker than it had been before. "I don't know how you have hot water out here, but it was glorious."

The man's eyes travel down Cristiano's body, and Cristiano realizes he's looking at the shirt and track bottoms.

"Oh," Cristiano says, fingering the hem of his shirt. He tugs it down a little, trying to cover up the strip of skin above his waistband. "I hope you don't mind." Speaks of his waistband, he wonders if there's really a good way to say, _hey, I borrowed some underwear_. "As you can see, my clothes were still wet... And I didn't think you'd want me sitting around in a towel, so..." He shrugs. "Not a perfect fit, obviously, but better than nothing, right?"

The man shrugs his shoulders so gently that it's almost imperceptible, and Cristiano lets out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. The stranger looks between the mug of tea and the bathroom indecisively. Another drop of water runs down the side of his face, down his neck and disappears into the curve of his collarbones.

"Maybe you should take a shower?" Cristiano suggests tentatively. The last thing he wants to do is order the man around in his own house... or cabin, whatever, but he knows that a hot shower will do him a world of good. He tries to make his tone as soft and open as possible.

The man nods and gives Cristiano a small smile. It's just a slight twitch of the lips, a subtle upturn of the corner of his mouth, but it's a smile nonetheless. Cristiano feels like he's won something, and smiles back as the man walks back towards the bathroom area.

"I'll heat up your tea so that it's ready when you're finished," Cristiano says, eager to help. He jumps up impulsively from the couch, reaching for the mug-- and almost screams out loud. It's like his ankle is on fire. Stabs of pain shoot up his foot and into his thigh, making him fall back into the couch with a pained grunt. His eyes water as his head swims in pain. He looks over towards his companion, thinking maybe he can somehow get across that he needs pain medication...

But the words get stuck in his throat.

Because the other man has just stripped off his thermal undershirt, revealing a gorgeously muscled back.

Jesus, who the fuck knew he was hiding that body underneath all of those layers? Cristiano licks his lips without meaning to, his mouth going dry as the other man starts to bend over and take off his pants. Just as the man begins to pull down a pair of black briefs, Cristiano looks away.

It's not quick enough to avoid seeing what looks like a deliciously plump ass.

Cristiano looks down into his mug. He's sure he's flushing, even though he knows the other man isn't paying any attention to him. But, damn, he's embarrassed at his actions--perving on this guy like some sort of sick creep.

Apparently, he's not embarrassed enough, though, because his eyes flick towards the other man when he hears the water start. The size of the cabin and the lack of privacy makes it easy to see into the shower from where Cristiano is sitting... And he takes advantage.

He greedily watches as the other man tips his head under the shower, the water pouring down miles of creamy skin. It only makes the muscles more evident, and Cristiano trails his eyes down the other man's spine, catching on the dimples just above--

He closes his eyes, warring with himself. "Fuck," he mutters. "I shouldn't..."

But he does. He opens his eyes.

Reprimanding himself more gently than he should, he lets his gaze roam over the other man's body-- and, _fuck_ , he's as fit as Cristiano himself! The man shifts slightly, giving Cristiano an even clearer view. Cristiano's mouth is dry and he leans forward without meaning to, now completely and unabashedly staring at the base of the man's spine before he lets his stare fall onto the guy's ass.

Cristiano sucks in a breath.

Because-- what an ass.

It might just be the most beautiful thing Cristiano has seen-- and he's seen his share of great things-- big and perfectly shaped, the same shade of cream as the rest of his skin, and Cristiano just wants to run over and _grab_ it--

The soap slips from the man's hand and clatters against the floor.

He bends over to retrieve it.

Cristiano hardens instantly in his track bottoms and borrowed underwear, unable to help himself. He gasps as he feels something hot against his hand and looks down in surprise, nearly dropping his mug as he realizes that he'd been clenching it in an unconscious effort to control himself. He loosens his grip, cradling it against his belly, part of his hand red now from the heat.

He looks back up.

And _fuck_ , Cristiano's heart is going into overdrive-- he can literally hear it thumping through the thin fabric of the borrowed shirt, loud to his own ears in the relative silence of the cabin. Because that ass...

Cristiano can't help imagining stepping forward into the shower--soaking his clothes instantly--and bending the man over again. Sliding a hand up that slick spine, gripping those hips tightly, pressing himself against that slim body.

He wants to see those dark eyes flutter with want, those pink lips part with desire--eager for Cristiano's kisses. And Cristiano would give them to him, would devour him eagerly, would let the water pour over them while writhed against each other.

Cristiano bites the heel of his hand to hold back a moan, fingers tight on the mug again.

 _Fuck_ , he wants.

The other man obliviously continues his shower, and Cristiano averts his eyes as the man turns in his direction, almost afraid of being called out.

He wills himself to calm down, pressing a hand against himself while taking a few deep breaths. He shouldn't be so worked up, doesn't know what it is about this man that's making him lose control. When he thinks he's calmed down enough, he looks up again.

The other man has his arms above his head, washing his hair. It shouldn't be so erotic--but it is. His biceps are bulging, delicate fingers caressing soapy strands so methodically... And then the soap begins to run down his neck, streaming down his muscled chest, drawing attention to tiny, pebbled nipples.

Cristiano's mouth waters again, eyeing the little pink nubs that he knows would taste delicious. He wants to tweak them with his fingers, wants to rub his thumb over them gently to see how the other man reacts.

He wants to slide his hand lower.

Down that flat stomach, fingers dipping into that belly button, before going lower...

 _Jesus, fuck_. Cristiano jumps up in sheer panic. He looks away desperately, trying to find something to take his mind--and eyes--off the man. He needs something, anything, to keep him from thinking about the way that soap is sliding down that man's body... that _wet_ body...

His gaze lands on a book that is lying face down on the coffee table. He thunks his mug down, ignoring the way his tea threatens to slosh over the side, and snatches the book up fumbling it in his haste. Taking a few deep breaths, he tries to focus on the book, ignoring the fact that he can still hear the water from the shower.

The pages are dog-eared at more places than he can count and are weathered, like they've been turned many times before. It's kinda charming, and he handles it carefully, afraid of tearing anything--even though it already shows so much wear. For all he knows, this is a treasured possession. Looking around, he again notices the huge shelf against the wall, full of books of different sizes.

It's rather fascinating for Cristiano, who genuinely can't remember the last time he's opened a book, and he scans the titles idly looking for something familiar.

He's intrigued by the idea that with a cabin this small, this man has chosen to fill so much space with books.

He gingerly takes down a book from the topmost shelf, wiping his hands dry on the shirt he is wearing before he does so. The title doesn't mean much to him, but this book has obviously been handled with loving care, and any of the tears and rips in the book jacket have been taped and repaired.

The book doesn't strike him as anything special as he carefully turns the pages, but something on the index page catches his eye. It's a small note written in blue ink, in childish, loopy writing, as if whoever wrote it was being extra careful not to mess up.

**Dear Leo,**

**Happy tenth! I think you'll like this book, you hopeless romantic.**

**Love, Ger**  
**24 June 1997**

Cristiano furrows his eyebrows slightly as he re-reads the note. It's such a little thing, but he likes to think that it helps him understand this strange little man. He runs the tip of his index finger over the name delicately, touching the ink. He frowns, able to see that the colour has faded over the years.

But he likes the idea that this man has kept this book, has kept such a small thing for so many years... And he wonders who 'Ger' is and what happened to him. And as for 'Leo'...

"Leo," he says, tasting the name, liking the way it rolls off his tongue. He says it again. "Leo." It's cute. Short. A nickname, probably? But he thinks it fits this small man with piercing dark eyes. There's something he can't quite put his finger on, but being able to give a name to the face makes him feel sort of satisfied.

He puts the book back exactly as it was and takes down another, intrigued. He wants to know more, wants to learn about Leo--about who he really is and why he's up here by himself. Quite a few have Leo's name on them, but there is nothing like Ger's note. He flips through a couple, expecting bookmarks, or photographs or scraps of paper maybe inside somewhere, but doesn't find anything at all.

Cristiano takes down book after book, looking for something to give him a hint about Leo with something close to desperation. Some of the books look promising, with more dog-eared pages, but none seem to have any other inscriptions. He's just replacing the seventh book into its slot with disappointment when he feels a hand on his shoulder.

"Fucking hell!" He yells, spinning around, nearly knocking a couple books off the shelf. His heart rate slows only slightly when he sees Leo, now dressed in dry clothing, looking somewhat apologetic.

"Fucking hell," he repeats, more calmly, though he does his best to glare at Leo, who continues to stare up at him. "Don't do that, don't creep up on me, I get scared easily, y'know?" He shouldn't, but he does, especially when he's in the middle of nowhere in a strange country with a man who won't speak a word.

Leo sniggers slightly, then looks surprised at himself.

Cristiano is a little surprised, too, especially since up until now, Leo has been rather quiet. He smiles--trying his friendly smile again--and laughs. He puts the book back on the shelf, trying to put it back exactly where he got it, though he's not sure he's successful. "I'm serious, don't do that, you nearly gave me a heart attack, Leo-" he says, biting his tongue immediately after he says the other man's name.

The effect is instantaneous.

Leo's eyes widen to the size of saucers the moment Cristiano says the name he'd discovered in the book, and the smaller man takes a step back. He looks mildly distressed, gaze searching Cristiano with confusion. He opens his mouth and then starts looking all around the cabin and at the door, finally stopping on the gun in the corner.

Cristiano immediately puts his hands up. He can see the panic starting to build in Leo's eyes.

"Shit, I'm sorry," Cristiano blurts out. He keeps his hands out, trying to keep Leo calm, knowing he's probably freaked the other man out entirely. "I was just flipping through your books," Cristiano explains, sounding much calmer than he actually is, gesturing towards the shelf. He smiles gently, hoping it will reassure his companion. "It is Leo, isn't it?" he asks. "One of them says Leo in it, and I just assumed... I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you."

Leo stops backing away, but he tilts his head as if he's judging Cristiano's sincerity. Cristiano waits, keeping his smile on his face even though he's desperately worried he's just ruined things.

"I won't look at them anymore," Cristiano offers, slowly dropping his arms to his sides. He's not quite sure of why he's offering this- the damage is already done- but it seems the right thing to do. And he tries to make sure Leo knows that this is all about the books and nothing stalkerish. "If it bothers you, that is. I was just curious."

Finally, Leo's shoulders relax and he stops looking at Cristiano so warily. He waves a hand as if it's not a bother and turns to go over to the tea Cristiano had made earlier.

Cristiano blinks, surprised by the sudden change in attitude but follows. Letting out a breath he didn't even know he was holding, he watches as Leo peers closer at the now lukewarm tea.

"Sorry, I was going to reheat it for you while you were in the shower," he says, words getting stuck in his throat. "But, I got distracted." He doesn't say anything about how it was because of Leo's gorgeous ass... "By the books," he adds, lying through his teeth. "Um, I think I made it right," he says, shrugging when Leo sniffs it curiously. "I mean, it's tea, so," he mumbles as Leo picks up the mug and takes a timid sip. "No sugar, because I wasn't sure if you wanted any."

Leo half smiles as he swallows, and it changes his whole face. Cristiano finds himself smiling back, again enthralled by the tiny lines appearing at the corner of Leo's eyes.

"That's got to be disgustingly cold, though," Cristiano says, scrunching up his face . "Mine probably is now, too," he says, pointing towards where the other mug is on the coffee table. "Don't you want to heat it up? Or-," he tries to take the mug from Leo without thinking. "I could do it for you?"

Leo grips the mug, not letting go, and Cristiano can feel their fingers touching.


End file.
